


she's like the wind

by alsoalsowik



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Dirty Dancing AU, F/M, ages are 18 and 22 respectively, and sasha is johnny bc why not, in which jean is baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alsoalsowik/pseuds/alsoalsowik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The music starts. You take a deep breath before facing your partner. She moves toward you like a predator. You want to run. Music swells. She sways. You forget to breathe. </p><p>Hands on your hips. </p><p>“Are you even paying attention?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	she's like the wind

**Author's Note:**

> ah yes the dirty dancing au that's been sitting as a wip for months. anywho, i just really love the idea of sasha teaching jean how to dance while they fall for each other (and let's be real here this movie is the bomb.com) also i changed their ages a little? apparently baby is 17 and johnny is 25 but i wanted to make it a little more acceptable so that's why they're closer in age. enjoy!

You’re just not getting it. No matter how hard you try, how much you practice, how many times you sneak out during family chess games, you keep messing the dance up. She’s gonna yell at you, you just know it, because the show is in two and a half days and you’re still stepping on the wrong beat. How can this be so hard? It’s just counting--one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four--over and over again until the rhythm is ingrained in your very being, like a stamp on your soul. Okay, well you don’t get the whole _stamp on your soul_ thing, but it’s something she told you. And it sounds nice.

 

Rain pours down in buckets on your way to the studio at the edge of camp, and your hair’s a mess, all wet and hanging over your forehead in a limp tangle. The white shirt you’re wearing--the only one you own, sadly--clings to you like a second skin, and you long for the protection of a windbreaker or sweater to keep the damp chill from reaching your skin. But then you see her at the door to the studio and your whole heart turns warm and fuzzy. Suddenly, the fact that your shirt is basically see-through and thin as a wafer doesn’t matter. You want to impress her with your dancing, you really and truly do, but goddammit, you just can’t count right.

 

“Before I let you in,” she starts, blocking the doorway with her short, startlingly strong body, “what count do you move on?”

 

“Two,” you answer, voice already sounding defeated. She’s already convinced you’ll fail, and you’re inclined to believe her. You’ve never gotten this step right.

 

“Good.” She moves out of the way, and you walk inside, chucking your soaked duffle bag by the door.

 

The music starts. You take a deep breath before facing your partner. She moves toward you like a predator. You want to run. Music swells. She sways. You forget to breathe.

 

Hands on your hips.

 

“Are you even paying attention?”

 

Hands gripping your hips, harsh. Trying to get your attention.

 

You nod quickly and make your first move. The way your body twists and turns is nowhere near as graceful and precise as hers, but fuck, you’re doing your best. One, two, three, four, one two, three, four, you’re counting, trying desperately to hold onto the beat when all you really want to hold onto is her, and-- you miss your step.

 

A curse, loud and clear.

 

“I’m trying, I really am!” You try and defend yourself, but you can see the impatience in her eyes. You _know_ she’s getting tired of showing you this step, the same step she’s showed you at least twenty times in the last two days.

 

“Well, you’re not trying hard enough!”

 

Arms crossed across her chest. Ghost fingerprints on your hips.

 

“Yes, I am!”

 

“No, you’re not!”

 

She steps toward you and your heart races.

 

“Look,” you say, softer this time, “I really am trying, Sasha. It’s just...I’m not used to this shit, and you know that. I promise, I’ll try to move on the right fucking count, but yelling at me isn’t gonna help.”

 

Arms uncross. Body relaxes.

 

“I know. I know, I know!” Sasha takes a deep breath and runs her fingers through her auburn ponytail. “But we don’t exactly have time for you to take your time learning this, you know?”

 

You nod. In fact, you’re acutely aware that the show is in a few days. Two days, to be exact. Two days, and you haven’t learned lifts, or mastered turns, or felt comfortable doing, like, _anything._

 

Sasha must notice how terrified you look all of a sudden, so she puts a hand on your arm while you try to remember how to breathe.

 

In, out, in, out, in, out.

 

“Look,” she says, voice softer, kinder, than before, “you’re doing well. Really, I’m impressed. There’re just some...details we need to work on, okay?”

 

You nod. You’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, and while you’re, like, one-hundred percent sure that Eren would be doing a better job right now, you’re gonna fuckin’ get this. Sasha’s giving you this small smile that looks like a goddamn angel shining down on her, and Christ, she looks good.

 

Deep breath. You shake your head in a lame attempt to clear it.

 

“Let’s try it again. I promise,” she rolls her eyes a little, and you try not to audibly sigh, “I won’t yell at you. Deal?”

Head nods.

 

This time, something feels more natural. You’re doing a much better job of actually following the music, and Sasha isn’t digging her nails into your arms to keep you focused. She closes her eyes, runs her hands through her now-loose hair, then makes her way towards you.

 

Hands on your hips. You turn, she turns, you step.

 

On the right count.

 

“Yes!” she shouts, spinning back to look at you. “I knew you could do it, Jean, I really did!”

 

“Holy shit,” you breathe, staring at your own two feet in awe. “I did. _We_ did.”

 

Sasha’s beaming at this point, and you really can’t help yourself when you start staring at her lips. She’s gorgeous, okay? “Okay, Kirschtein,” she starts, pulling your gaze from her mouth, “let’s learn that lift, shall we?”

 

You want to kiss her.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, the performance goes smoothly. Or, as smoothly as someone with no dance experience can expect it to go. In the car, back on the way to the hotel, Sasha’s telling you how well you did, while you stare at the lights from other cars out the window.

 

“...and even though the lift wasn’t perfect, I’m confident that our audience was impressed.”

 

You don’t answer.

 

Head turns. Hand on your arm. Thumb rubbing circles into your palm. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah. I’m just..worried that my family’s missed me, or something.”

 

“Oh. Well, I’ll get you back as fast as traffic will allow!” She pats your hand once, then returns it to the steering wheel. “You might wanna get changed back now. Back seat’s yours,” she adds.

 

The back is a pretty tight fit for all of your long limbs, but you manage to pull the dress shirt off without elbowing the roof of the car. If you catch Sasha staring from the rear view mirror, you pretend not to notice.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s two in the morning and you’re sneaking out of your family’s cabin for God only knows why, and the rain’s started again so you’re definitely going to be soaked to hell when you get wherever it is you’re running off to.

 

Okay, so you’re going to Sasha’s cabin.

 

You pound on her door, hoping she’s not asleep yet, and then before you can convince yourself to make for the hills and leave her alone, she opens it. All she’s wearing is a thin tank and these tiny cotton shorts that don’t look like they’re big enough to cover _anything_. When Sasha turns to let you inside, you find that you were right.

 

Jesus.

 

“So, um,” she says, cleaning a pile of clothes off of a chair for you to sit on, “what’s up?”

 

“I wanted to see you again. I snuck out,” you answer. Maybe she didn’t need to know that much.

 

“Damn,” she laughs, half-serious, “you aren’t afraid of anything, are you?”

 

That’s when you recognize the song playing on her record player. The same song that was on the very first time you danced together, weeks ago, in the staff clubhouse. She’d taught you what your family would call _dirty dancing_ , all hips and closeness. You can’t even imagine Sasha teaching that out on the main floor.

 

You’d felt something that night, something that drew you to her. Something that you desperately don’t want to lose.

 

“Me? Dammit, Sasha, I’m--I’m afraid of everything.”

 

“You are?” she asks, standing to take the record off.

 

“No! Leave the music on. I...like it.”

 

She sits back down.

 

“Anyway...I am scared. Of a lot.” You pause, trying to gather the courage to say what you came here to say. “I’m scared...of walking out of here and never feeling this way again. Of not ever feeling this--this passion again in my life. I don’t want to miss out on that.”

 

Sasha’s staring at you now, eyes wide and lips parted. “Jean, I--”

 

You cut her off by asking her to dance with you instead. She nods, slowly.

 

So you dance. Slow at first, just gently gripping her waist and swaying, but when you see the look in her eyes, feel her body so close to yours, you pull her even closer and really get into it.

 

A gasp. Her hands in your hair. Her leg, hitched around your waist.

 

You dip her, skim your lips over her abdomen, up her neck, almost to her mouth. They land just underneath her ear, instead, whispering nonsense that you hope she can’t hear. When she walks around you slowly, presses her mouth to your shoulder blade, then pulls her tank off, you know.

 

The dance has only just begun.

 

 


End file.
